Prompt 017: "Could you write something about wheats gaining weight (or preferably him just getting pretty noticeably chubby ((I know it's not that much of a popular idea in the fandom, but I think it's cute and it would be hella if there was some chelley fluff involved again)))? Thanks!"
Wheatley emerged from suspension as a malnourished, underweight patchwork of atrophied muscle and sallow skin. Bones pressed up beneath his hands, his chest, his back, his hips; tendons were against the pale column of his throat, cradling his prominent adam's apple beneath the stubble of his chin. He was altogether so very thin, dangerously so, and Chell remembers: when she held his hand in the vast wheat fields, it felt like she could tear it in two.
Since taking him in, she's made sure his meals have been healthy and filling. He eats three per day (he reminds her if she forgets), and anything she makes, he devours with appreciation and gratitude. Contented hums from across the table, an "Oh, love, this is amazing," and "You really should do this for a living, you know!"; compliments that make her blood run warm and her face feel like she's standing over a pot of boiling water.
Building up what sleep and cells have consumed has proven to be quite difficult. Gaining weight doesn't seem to happen so easily for Wheatley. Countless years in suspension must have done a number on his body to be sure. Still, she notices small things: his sharp wrist bones softening, his protruding ribs being enveloped, the gauntness in his face smoothing out. It's a slow process.
Chell is in the kitchen, taking the whistling kettle off the stove. The television babbles from the living room; some sort of sitcom, she thinks, because she can hear Wheatley's laughter from around the corner. She pours the water into the mugs she's set out, each with its own blend of Earl Grey.
As she emerges from the kitchen, she sees Wheatley sprawled out across the couch, head upon a cushion, basking in the light of the TV. His blue pajama shirt is riding up, and she notes that he's developed a bit of a paunch.
"This is brilliant," he says, beckoning her over with a wave of his hand. "You really should watch this, you know. I think you'll like it. Well, maybe you might. But you won't know until you watch, yeah? So here, come on, sit down." He pulls his gangly legs in and sits upright, patting the spot beside him.
Chell smiles, weaving around the coffee table. She places her mug down and hands him his before sinking into the sofa.
"Oh, thank you. You're amazing, you know that?" He brings an arm around her, fingers climbing through her hair, and she feels the softness of his mouth as he kisses her forehead.
Warmth knots behind her breastbone, comforting and close. She leans into his body, heat seeping into her nerves, and her hand reaches across to rest on his belly. Her thumb fondly strokes the patch of hair that trails southward.
"It's about this bloke called the Doctor," he says, sipping from the mug. "He does all sorts of crazy things. He's mad, but incredibly clever. Got this thing, something or other screwdriver, and it—well, it hacks things, more or less. Wish I could hack things like that. It just takes him a few seconds, not even, and then doors are swinging open like they've never been locked. Brilliant."
Chell isn't interested in the television, but she indulges him and watches anyway. As the fellow with spiky hair scrambles around on screen with a blond lady, she feels Wheatley tuck his arm around her side and bring her closer.
He nudges his forehead against hers, glasses touching her brow. "Love you," he murmurs.
Chell can't return the words, but she kisses him, slow and soft, and she hopes he knows she loves him, too.